Fool for Love

Mark began with the torso. With smooth, careful lines, he formed the outline of the body, slowly adding detail and shape, sinew and flesh. He lay on his stomach, lounging across his bed, bare feet dangling off the side, sketching Jim Morrison from the poster of a famous Doors album cover that hung on his bedroom wall. He switched pencils and, gently using his fingertips, blended the shading around Morrison’s nipples.

As Mark drew, he felt the familiar stirrings—fluttering, heaviness, and urgency—pressing inside his chest. Sometimes he had to finish drawings just to make the persistent, nagging ache go away. Often, when he finished a drawing, he would think about it after going to bed, his hands sliding beneath the covers in the dark.

The Doors blared from his nearby stereo. The music, combined with the kind of concentration that made Mark absentmindedly chew his tongue and draw for hours without looking up, kept him from hearing his sister’s first loud, firm knocks on his bedroom door. The second set of knocks jerked him from his reverie, and he jumped up to turn down the volume on his stereo.

Brynn poked her head through the doorway. She noticed that the half-closed blinds in Mark’s room cast long blocks of late afternoon sun onto the bedroom floor. She noted the assortment of pencils spread across his rumpled comforter, and spotted his sketchbook open on the bed. Brynn thought she saw a drawing of Jim Morrison’s torso before Mark flipped the book shut and sat down on his bed. Brynn stepped over a skateboard flipped on its back, one wheel missing and awaiting repair, and sidestepped a massive heap of dirty, well-worn T-shirts, assorted sneakers, and rumpled jeans. A stack of homework lay untouched near the foot of the bed, alongside a pile of bulky college application packages.

Mark sighed and began drumming his pencil on the cover of his sketchpad. He pushed back a lock of hair from his face and looked up at his sister. “Okay, Brynn, lay it on me.”

Brynn raised her eyebrows. “Lay what on you? Can’t a little sister just come by and visit her brother?” It was Mark’s turn to raise his eyebrows, and this time Brynn caved. “Okay, here’s the deal. Tonight is opening night of the show and we’re short an usher, and I was wondering if you could help out like you did that one time with The Good Doctor.” She said it briskly, half question and half challenge.

Mark sized her up, looking at Brynn’s compact, scrappy frame in the oversized denim bib overalls she frequently wore, her straight hair hanging down her back in two buoyant auburn pigtails. Brynn, a sophomore at Washington High School, had quickly established a heady reputation for herself in the school’s theater department by designing and building innovative, elaborate, and surprisingly cost-effective sets for the last two school plays. This would be her third and, rumor had it, finest work to date.

Brynn’s free hand went to her other hip. “Well, are you doing anything else important this evening, Mr. Artiste, other than drawing naked men alone in your bedroom?”

Mark’s face flushed a brilliant shade of crimson, and he turned his head away. He picked at a loose string on his comforter. “I wasn’t drawing naked men. I was doing a rendering of a Doors album cover, if you must know.” He looked at Brynn, hands still on her hips.

She arched an eyebrow and began tapping her fingers against her thigh. She watched her brother carefully, sure she was on the precipice of victory. He sighed.

The parking lot of Washington High overflowed with midsize sedans, SUVs, and pickups. Every ticket for opening night had sold out a week earlier, thanks to Mrs. Calpern’s clever casting of two popular football players in hammy supporting roles, combined with talented actors in the lead roles, and elaborate sets that set tongues wagging as soon as the curtain went up. Mobs of lip-glossed girls showed up early for the performance, jockeying for seats with proud parents, half of the Washington Cougars football team, and a considerable contingent of gray-haired, denture-wearing members of the surrounding Denver community.

The theater’s steeply sloped seating filled to capacity fifteen minutes before curtain. Mark, having dutifully executed his ushering responsibilities, squeezed into a seat near the back of the house before the lights dimmed. He hadn’t planned on staying for the show—especially since he suspected it was a cheesy musical—but his curiosity about the sets Brynn had designed and built, along with the expectant Friday night buzz of the audience, lured him into one of the last available seats. He could always leave at intermission and pick up Brynn after the show.

There was an audible gasp when the curtain rose. Stage right was dominated by an elaborate castle set, complete with stone walls, furniture upholstered in crushed red velvet, and a heavy gilt painting hanging over a wide-mouthed stone fireplace. Center stage had become the common room of a poor peasant’s cottage, and stage left was a provincial baker’s kitchen.

As far as Mark could tell, the musical was a retelling of “Cinderella,” “Jack and the Beanstalk,” and “Rapunzel,” with all the stories eventually intertwined and overlapping. As the play went on, Mark found that the characters’ propensity to break into song during a scene wasn’t as strange as he’d imagined.

In a development that Mark found somewhat unnerving, his eyes were glued to the actor playing Jack every time he appeared on stage. Just the sight of Jack, played by Seth Stratton, a fellow senior with a mop of brown hair and a tall, lean frame, caused Mark to hold his breath and his palms to sweat. Mark sometimes stared at Seth even when he was supposed to be watching somebody else. In the first act, when Seth sang a song about his adventures up the beanstalk, Mark felt himself growing lightheaded. A low, dull ache began in his abdomen and moved downward.

Later, on the ride home, after the standing ovation and his embarrassment at nearly crying during the finale, Mark cleared his throat to speak.

Mark arrived forty-five minutes early for the next night’s performance. He brought his sketchbook along to calm his nerves, anxiously looking forward to the end of his ushering duties so he could slip into a seat and watch Seth Stratton onstage again. Mark’s smooth, precise lines slowly formed into a reworking of the dense forest from Act One, including Jack and the albino cow that Jack traded for magic beans. He didn’t look up until the first Washington High cheerleader arrived, snapping her gum, snatching at Mark’s stack of programs, and brusquely asking where she could find seat 32C.

Mark sat closer to the stage for Saturday’s performance, wiping his hands on his pants and catching his breath after each of Seth’s songs. At intermission, he splashed cold water on his face in the blue-tiled boys’ bathroom and gripped the sides of the porcelain sink, his heart thrumming inside his chest.

After curtain call, Brynn signaled to Mark, her pigtails bobbing as she waved her arms while the audience filed from the theater: zipping up jackets, turning on cell phones, and fishing for car keys in purses and pockets.

“Could you do me a big favor?” Brynn asked. “Our sound guy had to leave early, so could you get the microphone packs from the actors? One of the foam stones fell off the fireplace, and I have to fix it before we can leave.”

“Make sure you get the transmitter, microphone, and battery pack. They can’t return it without the battery pack.” Brynn shot down the stairs of the theater, clasps rattling on her bib overalls, and yelled for Megan, the perpetually frazzled stage manager.

Minutes later, Mark stood outside the men’s changing room, listening to Chris Harper and Derek Bolling, the crowd-pleasing athletes, laughing about their Act One duet that had inspired two overzealous junior girls to throw lingerie onto the stage. Mark took a deep breath and knocked, relieved when Chris, not Seth, opened the door.

Chris ushered him into the room and began dismantling his microphone pack, handing each of the pieces to Mark. While Chris took off his microphone, Mark spotted Seth at the far end of the room, grinning as the others laughed and speculated about getting some action with the girls who threw the slinky lingerie.

Mark’s arms were so filled with electronics by the time he got to Seth that he had to set his sketchbook on the counter to take Seth’s microphone. Mark still hadn’t figured out anything inspired to say to Seth, other than asking for his microphone. Seth was shirtless and looked tired but exhilarated. When Seth smiled at him, Mark dropped some battery packs.

“Whoa, you’ve got a lot of those things,” Seth said, helping Mark scoop up the errant electronics. “Usually they have some sort of bag for them.” Mark felt his face grow warm as he saw Seth eyeing his sketchbook on the makeup counter. “Do you draw?” Seth asked.

“Well, well, Mark Casey, it seems that you’ve got quite a talent,” Seth said. He flipped to the sketch Mark had made of Jack and his cow in the forest. Seth looked up at Mark, his eyes a startling hue of green. “Seriously, Mark, these are amazing,” Seth said, still flipping pages.

“I’ve got much better stuff than this at home,” Mark said, surprised by his ability to speak with Seth’s shirtless form and green eyes directly in front of him.

Mark nodded, pleased that Seth knew where he lived. He could smell the light mixture of sweat and soap from Seth’s skin, and for a moment, he felt vaguely intoxicated.

“You doing anything tomorrow before the show?” Seth asked. “Because I wouldn’t mind seeing your stuff. I could drive you to the school afterward. And Brynn, if she wants.”

When Brynn drove home later, she looked at Mark sprawling in the passenger seat and grinning at the suburban homes whizzing by. Something was different about him. She momentarily entertained the idea that he was high, but knew that wasn’t exactly Mark’s scene. Could it be that he was crushing on somebody from school? Maybe even somebody from the show? Brynn, unable to imagine who, turned her attention back to the road.

The next day, Mark flew around his bedroom, flinging open the blinds, jamming clothes into the closet, throwing homework into his backpack, and sticking the half-fallen Weezer poster back up on the wall. He stood in front of his full-length mirror, changing shirts four times before settling on a navy blue hooded sweatshirt that he thought made him look rugged, yet handsome. He changed his socks after noticing that the first pair had a hole in the big toe, and then sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap, unable to think of anything to do before Seth Stratton arrived.

Why was Seth coming over anyway? Was it just a friendly visit, or could it possibly mean something else? Surely Seth couldn’t want anything more than to see his sketches. But—dear God—what if Seth did want something more? Did Mark want that, too?

Before he had another minute to think, the doorbell rang. Mark grabbed a glossy college booklet that had come in the mail and sprawled across his bed, feigning effortless calm, only noticing that he was holding the booklet upside down seconds before he heard knocking.

Seth wore a leather jacket over a vintage concert T-shirt. His smile was easy and affable, his hands buried in his pockets. For a moment Mark thought maybe Seth was nervous, too, but he dismissed the idea. What would Seth have to be nervous about?

To distract himself from his nervousness, Mark started a conversation—which Seth seemed happy to join—that quickly turned to Mark’s posters, CD collection, and then to the books that filled a tall shelf in the corner of the room. They discussed the artful lyricism of the new Bright Eyes album, their nostalgia for vintage Weezer, and their shared enjoyment of the book they were reading in English. (“Doesn’t Ordinary People make you think of Catcher in the Rye?” Seth asked, almost causing Mark to kiss him.) They discussed college plans and expounded on the evils of AP and SAT exams.

Mark brought out a selection of his sketchbooks, and they sat cross-legged on his bed, examining each of the drawings. With the sketchpads open between them, Mark felt the ease of their conversation become almost palpable.

“You know,” he said, looking down at his comforter, “I think you’re really good in the show. You’ve got this great voice, and you make it all look so easy. I could never get up there and do that.”

“Well, thanks,” Seth said, laughing. For a moment, Mark thought he could see shyness surfacing. “I used to get really nervous and freaked out when I was onstage. Sometimes it got so bad that I thought I’d crap my pants or barf or something.” Mark laughed. “But then, after a while, I figured out that the secret to the whole thing is kind of pretending like no one is watching. Then it gets much easier.”

Without particularly meaning to do it, but suddenly wanting to desperately, Mark leaned toward Seth. He closed his eyes and gently placed his lips on Seth’s. The kiss lasted several seconds. Then, breathing heavily, Mark opened his eyes and watched Seth open his.

Without saying anything, Seth heaved himself off the bed, grabbed the doorknob, and was out of the house before Mark’s bedroom door shut. Mark fell back on his bed and closed his eyes. He punched his headboard twice, the second hit breaking the skin on his knuckles.

That night, when Mark refused to come out of his bedroom when it was time to leave for the show, Brynn stood outside his door for almost fifteen minutes, trying to piece everything together. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the doorframe. What was going on with Mark, anyway? Why had Seth left in such a huff?

After Brynn finally left for the theater, Mark stayed in his bedroom and stared at his drawing of Jack in the forest. With a few quick rips, he shredded the page to confetti. Then, as he hadn’t done during the finale of the opening night performance, Mark cried.

Mark slept fitfully, waking in a tangle of sweaty sheets. Monday morning seemed particularly cruel as he stepped into the shower. At breakfast, Mark avoided Brynn’s questioning glares.

Brynn knew she wasn’t just imagining the vacant look on Mark’s face as he walked through the halls of Washington High. Something was definitely wrong.

Mark had to be called on twice during third-period calculus before he responded. He skipped fifth period, opting for an unauthorized study session in the library, which turned into endless circular doodling in his organic chemistry notebook.

Seth hadn’t come to school that day. Mark was sure of it. He’d looked for Seth’s face in the hallways, and listened for the voice that had made his palms sweat when he first watched Seth onstage.

It was written in careful, rounded script. Mark read the note two more times before he crumpled it in his hand and dropped it in a nearby garbage can.

“Mark, we really need you tonight,” Brynn said, standing in the doorway of Mark’s bedroom. Mark lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. “We’ve got enough ushers, but Mike Thompson, who usually does spotlights, broke his arm skateboarding, so I was hoping—”

Mark turned his head toward his sister and narrowed his eyes. “Brynn, I’m so sick of playing backup for your precious little theater department. Contrary to what you may believe, I have a life, too. Have you ever considered that maybe I don’t want to waste another night playing Brynn’s obedient helper for the stupid school musical?”

Brynn folded her arms, and her mouth became a narrow line. “I thought you enjoyed helping out. It’s not like you don’t have the time to do it, Mark. You’re here in this room, drawing away on a Saturday night, and we need the help. Okay? We need the help, and I thought we could count on you.”

An icy, lingering silence filled the room. Then, without knowing why it came to her, something clicked in Brynn’s mind. She looked at Mark.

Brynn barged into the men’s changing room without knocking, which didn’t seem to faze anyone. The sight of Brynn Casey rushing around the theater department, usually putting some last-minute details together, was common enough. Seth slowly pulled his Act One costume over his head, looking pale and drawn, the bags under his eyes visible under his stage makeup.

“We need to do another one,” Brynn said, taking Seth by the wrist and leading him out of the room. She walked him down the narrow corridor, past the women’s changing room and the bathrooms, and into a cavernous choir rehearsal room. She opened the door, shoved aside a rack of green and gold choir robes, and pushed Seth into the room. The rack squeaked across the room, the choir robes swinging on their hangers.

“Listen to me carefully, Seth Stratton.” The sight of Brynn with her brow furrowed, pigtails quivering, and voice stern, silenced Seth. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and my brother, and maybe I’m reading this whole thing wrong, but I don’t think I am.”

“Mark won’t say a thing to me, but I know something is going on between you two.” She began pacing back and forth. “I don’t know if you guys had some stupid argument, or if this is a lovers’ spat, and I don’t know if you’re the one who needs to say sorry, or if he is.”

“If you’re the one who needs to say sorry, say it. And if he’s the one who needs to say it, make him say it. I’m sick of him moping around the house, and sick of watching you two stumble around the halls of this school like miserable zombies.” Brynn poked Seth’s chest with her finger. “So, Seth, be a man and take care of it, huh?”

“I mean, take care of it, please.” She patted Seth on the shoulder, like a coach would a player after a pep talk. “Besides,” she said, looking up into Seth’s eyes, “I think he really likes you. A lot.”

Brynn turned and left, the heavy door clattering shut behind her. Seth stood alone, the choir robes swaying back and forth on the rack across the room.

Mark sighed and snapped the phone shut. He felt guilty for being an ass earlier that night. He’d never admit it—at least not without significant prodding—but he did, in fact, enjoy helping out at the theater. It was nice to be needed, to be part of something. Secretly, he was proud to be the brother of the girl who made heads turn with her fantastic sets and her ability to single-handedly keep the theater department from falling apart.

The parking lot was almost empty when Mark pulled up to the school. He entered through the theater’s backstage entrance and fumbled through the darkness toward the stage. Onstage, the lights still shown dimly, and Mark guessed that Brynn was in the lighting booth.

He was climbing the stairs to the booth when he heard someone behind him say his name. Mark turned and froze, seeing Seth, still in costume, standing in the elaborate forest set from Act Two.

“I’ve been stupid,” Seth said. “It’s just that, you know, I’m not even sure what to say. I’ve never done any of this before.”

“I’m terrified of being ‘the gay theater kid,’ just one more cliché in this stupid cliché high school. It scares the shit out of me. But then I start thinking about what we talked about when I came over to your house—everything I said about being onstage and acting like no one’s watching—and I feel like the biggest hypocrite.” Seth stepped closer to Mark, and Mark let his arms drop to his sides. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m scared as hell. But I was thinking that maybe I should put my money where my mouth is and see if we can figure this thing out.”

Seth stepped closer to Mark and reached for Mark’s hand. When Mark didn’t pull away, Seth raised up on his toes and, in the middle of the enchanted forest, kissed Mark Casey. Their fingers intertwined, and Mark wrapped his arm around Seth’s waist, pulling Seth firmly toward him.

At the cast party at Chris Harper’s sprawling house on the edge of town, everyone sat on logs around a bonfire. Chris’s mother had brought out a pile of old blankets, and the cast and crew huddled under them in groups, drinking lightly spiked apple cider and singing favorite numbers from the show. Brynn saw Seth and Mark appear at the bonfire, stepping out of the darkness like ghosts. She smiled and gave them a small wave, which they sheepishly returned.

“Nothing you haven’t already figured out,” Mark said. He tugged gently at one of her pigtails, and she smacked him on the shoulder. He laughed as he walked away and sat down next to Seth on one of the logs.

“Let’s give them something to talk about all week at school,” Seth whispered into Mark’s ear. He pulled the blanket around their shoulders.

Seth laughed and scooted closer, resting his head on Mark’s shoulder. They felt the heat of the fire on their faces, the warmth from the cider blooming in their chests. They listened as the fire crackled and snapped, and watched it send a spray of brilliant orange, red, and yellow sparks into the starless night sky.